


Gold Rush Chapter 5 SAFE VERSION (without nsfw images)

by ShirleyCarlton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2903906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShirleyCarlton/pseuds/ShirleyCarlton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a 'safe' version of chapter 5 of my fic <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2706491">Gold Rush</a>, meaning that this version does not contain the nsfw illustrations that the original does in that chapter. I thought some people, who might be reading this in a public place, would appreciate there being an illustrationless version. :)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Gold Rush Chapter 5 SAFE VERSION (without nsfw images)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a 'safe' version of chapter 5 of my fic [Gold Rush](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2706491), meaning that this version does not contain the nsfw illustrations that the original does in that chapter. I thought some people, who might be reading this in a public place, would appreciate there being an illustrationless version. :)

It was bad enough that the bloody dildo hadn’t arrived the next day as it was supposed to, but the fact that the missed opportunity to practice had made Sherlock so nervous that he had scared John away and ended up alone in 221B that evening, made him feel rather miserable indeed.

Sherlock missed John from the minute their lips had stopped touching on the corner of Blandford Street, and it made his stomach clench that he had no clue as to when he would see him again. Irritable and tired, he dropped onto the sofa and closed his eyes. As soon as he shut out all visual stimuli, images from the pornos he’d seen the previous afternoon came drifting back into his mind; as they had at several – very inconvenient – moments during the day as well. But this time he didn’t try to push them away.

The skinny dark-haired boy with the dog-paw tattoo flat on his back with his knees drawn up high as the muscled blonde pushed into him. The same youth bent over a desk with the other man slowly entering him from behind, while he turned his head so that they could kiss at the same time. The boy with his back against a wall, his legs wrapped around his partner’s waist as he was being held tightly in place by the blonde, whose hips meanwhile rhythmically moved forward and back.

In the videos with these two, there had been smiles and a tenderness that had actually surprised Sherlock. Even though they were actors, a lot of it had seemed genuine and spontaneous to a certain extent. There had been no trace of discomfort in the lanky boy’s body language, and Sherlock had enjoyed watching the pair more than he’d thought he would.

Sherlock’s breathing became somewhat more shallow as he tried to picture himself and John in the various positions, wondering what John would be like during sex: whether he would be shy or assertive, gentle or dominant. Sherlock had felt John’s passion when they'd kissed, but he knew that John was not the type to push boundaries or be selfish. If Sherlock would just be able to relax enough, it had to be possible to manage penetration without too much difficulty. It _had_ to be.

He pictured John’s naked torso as he’d seen it during their summers as flatmates, on the occasions when John hadn’t bothered to put on a bathrobe coming out of the shower. Sherlock then pictured them both naked, embracing, John running his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his body, lower and lower. He arched his back on the sofa and pressed a hand over his groin. But as soon as he imagined himself bending over a table with John behind him, all of a sudden he was fourteen again and back in the geography store room at St. James’s, tears of pain rolling down his cheeks.

Sherlock quickly opened his eyes and sat up straight. He ran a hand through his hair and went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.

The case. He still needed to work on the case.

He drank half the glass in one go and took a deep breath, mentally locking the door that had suddenly, though not entirely unexpectedly, flown wide open in the anticyclone that was now his mind.

_Focus._

_Violet Smith._

Sherlock shook his head to expel all other thoughts, like a dog ridding himself of unpleasant raindrops. It worked.

He inhaled deeply once more. 

He had already determined that Violet would likely not forgive Bob if she found out it was he who had been following her around, especially if she learnt the story behind it. Yet there were at least a dozen characteristics of their personalities that were perfectly compatible with each other. Since that number was much higher than for the average couple, it would be a pity if it didn’t work out between them just because Bob had initially had rather dubious motives to start dating her.

But Sherlock had one more plan up his sleeve to even further increase the chance of successfully getting rid of Jack, which was, after all, Violet’s primary concern.

Luckily, he knew a very posh restaurant whose owner owed him a favour.

He let out a long breath and switched on his computer.

Ten minutes later, he had successfully hacked Violet’s mailbox, using a trick he’d recently asked a programmer to teach him in exchange for verifying his alibi in a murder case. Then he typed an e-mail from her account to Bob.

\--Would you like to go out for dinner this Saturday at The Ledbury, around 8pm? Would love to see you again. xx

As soon as it was sent, he deleted the message from Violet’s ‘sent items’, so as not to leave any trace of his actions.  
Then he sent the exact same message from Bob’s account to Violet, also deleting it from his account subsequently.

After that, he waited. It was vital to intercept and delete the replies before Bob and Violet could read them themselves.

He sat staring blindly at the computer screen like a fisherman at his bobber. This was the only kind of doing nothing he could stand, and he allowed himself to let his thoughts stray as his eyes stayed fixed on both inboxes.

He tried to imagine John sitting behind him in his chair near the fireplace, reading a newspaper. Even though the silence was the same – save for an occasional turning of a page Sherlock had to add in his imagination – , there was a huge difference in John actually being there or not, as irrational as it seemed. Just as Sherlock hadn’t really needed him to accompany him to the goldsmith that afternoon, but everything was just so much more... _fun_ , with him there.

He made a sour face, still not used to allowing himself to admit he was susceptible to the concept of amusement.

_Every genius needs an audience._

Well, it was more than that, obviously.  
Whether John was being an appreciative listener to his being particularly brilliant or not, Sherlock just wanted John _close_. He _needed_ him at his side, either standing by to back him up with a gun during hazardous pursuits of criminals or just emanating his calm presence while sipping tea in his old chair in 221B. John had become as essential to Sherlock as oxygen, and infinitely more dear.

As ridiculous as Sherlock had always thought it to find one person the most beautiful and amazing in the world above all others, he was now finally reaching the point where he was giving up all resistance to these kinds of feelings.

 _As long as I don’t fuck this up_ , he told himself once more.  
_I have to do whatever is necessary to make sure I don’t fuck this up._

His back straightened as he saw a reply from Bob arrive in Violet’s mailbox.

\--Sounds great! Jack says it’s an incredibly posh place though... Maybe we should go to Negozio instead? It’s a lovely Italian restaurant down the road, slightly more affordable. :) Look forward to seeing you too. x

Sherlock typed out a reply as fast as lightning.

\--I know. Don’t worry, it’s on me. :) I thought it would be fun to have a proper fancy date for once. x

There. That should definitively convince Bob, and indirectly Jack, that there was no point going through with their scheme, as the ship had already sailed.

As soon as Sherlock had hit ‘send’, he quickly deleted both messages from Violet’s account.

Then he sat and waited again.

It was midnight before Violet’s reply finally arrived.

\--Oh, that would be lovely. See you then! x

That had gone smoothly. He hit ‘delete’ once more and sat back in his chair, content.

Tomorrow he would reserve two tables at The Ledbury for the day after.

* * * * *

The next morning, when Sherlock was in the middle of an experiment involving twenty-five dead mice and eighteen pounds of calcium oxide, the postman finally delivered the essential item for his other research. Or rather, practice.

Sherlock hastily took it out of the packaging, making certain that it matched the description, and then stashed it in the drawer of his bedside table, together with the lube he had ordered along with it. Then he went back to his mice.

* * * * *

Several hours later, he was going over the results of his experiment, sitting in his armchair with his eyes closed as he committed the observed facts to memory and stored them in the relevant sections of his Mind Palace.

It was not yet dark when Sherlock was torn from his reveries by the unexpected sound of John’s footsteps on the stairs. They sounded ridiculously energetic for the time of day, but then again, so did his own heart the minute he heard them.

_John._

He didn’t move or open his eyes just yet. He only hugged his knees a fraction tighter, with his chin still resting on top of them.

John had decided to come here again straight after work, in spite of Sherlock’s aloof behaviour the previous evening.  
Dammit, why hadn’t he spent his time on more pressing matters?  
Nevertheless, Sherlock was elated to see his... his... John. He smiled. _His John_. Whatever he now was to him, exactly.

Although the experiment had been a rather efficient form of distraction, it could never fill the gaping hole that was John’s absence.

A short knock. “Sherlock?”

“Come in.” His voice sounded funny, but he didn’t care. He stood up and walked over to where John was appearing from behind the door, and without any hesitation Sherlock fell straight into his arms before the man was even properly inside the flat. “John,” he breathed.  
He was not going to push him away or scare him off again, not if he could help it. If he was honest with himself (which he was now starting to be), he’d been wanting to hold John like this for years; and finally there was no reason anymore why he shouldn’t. Until now, John had been the only one with the guts to take the initiative, so now it was his turn.

He heard a soft chuckle in his ear in reply.

Suddenly, everything felt simple again. John was here and hugging him back. Soon, their mouths found each other and a minute later, they were passionately kissing, snogging properly for the first time and pressing their bodies together without restraint.

Sherlock dug one hand into John’s hair – with his other arm still wrapped tightly around John’s middle – while John clutched Sherlock’s jacket as if afraid he might otherwise disappear into thin air. With their mouths frantically exploring each other, Sherlock managed to push the door shut with one elbow and then let himself fall back against it, which John, correctly, took as an invitation to crowd close and push him against the wooden surface. The increased sensation of bodily contact this created, caused Sherlock to soon feel his erection strain against the inside of his trousers, and he couldn’t help grinding it against John for some relief. He could then feel John’s prick in a similar state, pressing back rock-hard against his groin.

All of a sudden, a million ants were crawling through his stomach. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Even though he kept being overcome by a physically sickening anxiety at the thought of actual intercourse, at the same time he wanted it so badly that it was driving him mad. It was not just that he wanted it to be gotten over with so that he could stop obsessing over it. It was just so good to feel John pressed this close to him, to sense John – his steadfast, down-to-earth John – being aroused by _him_ , to hear his fast breaths in his ear, longing and desperate, for _him_ , that it summoned the strangest sensation in Sherlock of wanting to be even closer than this. His tongue was already inside John’s mouth, their hands were all over each other, ensuring almost full-body contact and still, it was not enough.

“John, I… want you… inside me,” Sherlock stammered, between kisses.  
Sod his stupid plans to practise first.

“Christ,” John breathed, looking a bit startled. “Are you… Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he panted.

“God, Sherlock I don’t know, I’m honestly kind of afraid… you know, of hurting you. I wouldn’t want that.”

“It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t worry about that.”

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to fully realise what John had actually just said.  
John was afraid of hurting him. Wonderful, wonderful John. Everything was going to be alright.  
He trailed John’s lips with his tongue, the lips that had just spoken those words. He then moved on to John’s jawline, planting kisses along it, just because he could. When he arrived at John’s earlobe, he softly kissed that, too, before going back to his mouth.

“Christ, Sherlock, I want you so badly, you’ve no idea, but--”

“Then come inside me,” Sherlock whispered, their foreheads touching.

John was gripping Sherlock’s shoulder blades tightly, fingers digging into his flesh, firm and real. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he mumbled, and then lunged in for another sloppy kiss. With his hands he seemed to try to hold Sherlock everywhere at once, restlessly caressing his torso and shoulders.

When the hands and mouth abruptly disappeared, Sherlock blinked his eyes open to see John hastily unbuttoning his chequered shirt, his fingers faintly trembling. “God, it’s suddenly hot in here, isn’t it?” John muttered with an apologetic grin. Sherlock only bit back a smile as he waited to see John’s bare chest.

When the buttons were all finally open, John impatiently shrugged off his shirt, then looked at Sherlock again.

But Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to John’s scar, which he had never seen up this close before. The scar that had brought John home, to him. Wasn’t it the strangest twist of fate that they wouldn’t be here if John hadn’t been shot in Afghanistan? Then again, almost the same went for his own gunshot wound, which had revealed Mary’s true nature and eliminated her from the equation.

Sherlock went still and leaned in to press a soft kiss to the star-shaped scar tissue on John’s shoulder, trying hard not to think of what could have happened if John's unit hadn’t managed to get him back to the base in time and he had been left to bleed for longer.  
He straightened back up and they looked at each other for a moment, suddenly serious. Through a miracle they were both still alive. Alive and together, blood rushing through their veins, now filled with raging testosterone and adrenalin.

Then something nakedly possessive flickered in John’s eyes. He put his hands on Sherlock’s hips and went in for another kiss, just tongues this time, with their lips hardly touching. In the mean time, his fingers that had been resting on Sherlock’s waist started pulling Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers. He then slipped his hands underneath, his fingertips softly scraping over Sherlock’s skin.

The touch was electrifying, sending shuddering waves of goose bumps across Sherlock’s body. Sherlock let his head fall back against the door and John took the opportunity to lean in and run his tongue over his neck, eliciting a series of gasps and sighs from Sherlock’s open mouth, which were answered by John’s soft moans of contentment.

When John’s hands reached the small of Sherlock’s back, he pulled Sherlock more tightly towards him, grinding his cock into Sherlock’s thigh, apparently desperate for friction.  
“Is this really what you want?” he asked again. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

John looked at Sherlock hesitantly for an instant, as if collecting himself, then deliberately reached for the top button of Sherlock’s shirt and started unbuttoning it, slowly and carefully. His eyes flashed between Sherlock’s and the place where he was about to see newly exposed skin behind each button. When his eyes fell on the little circle that his ex-wife’s bullet had left, he briefly looked up at Sherlock with a blank stare that hid the depth of emotion beneath it.

Sherlock quickly helped John get the shirt off him and threw it randomly across the room so they could focus on each other again. He then boldly grabbed John’s arse with one hand and pressed his lips to John’s again. John curved a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck in response, kissing him back, more slowly and gently this time.

Sherlock revelled in the feeling of their stomachs touching skin to skin and pulled John even closer to him.  
The kiss slowed further until both their movements practically came to a halt and they stood almost motionless with their lips pressed together, eyes closed.

This was it. They were about to go to his bedroom and do it, Sherlock knew. He felt a strange calmness descend over him and he gently took hold of John’s hand. “Come on,” he whispered.

Sherlock led the way, repeatedly looking over his shoulder as if to check this was real. (Why did being in love mean you had to behave like a five-year-old again, he wondered?)

John looked back at Sherlock from under his brows with a somewhat apprehensive smile, his head hesitantly tilted downwards.

Strange as it seemed, seeing John’s nerves significantly quieted Sherlock’s own.

Once they were inside his room, Sherlock took the initiative to go in for another kiss while simultaneously undoing first John’s fly, and then his own. They stepped apart for a moment to take off trousers, shoes and socks, both breathing as if they’d just chased a murder suspect across London.

The following awkward moment, where they were standing there in just their pants, was quickly ended by John, who wrapped his arms around Sherlock and let his hands wander all over his back. Sherlock instinctively pressed his face into John’s neck, breathing in his scent, so as to inhale as many John Watson biomolecules as possible. He had always been intensely aware of the faint version of this smell lingering in the vicinity of his former flatmate and had longed to properly breathe it in at close range all these years. It was the nicest smell he could imagine on the planet, curiously calming and arousing at the same time. Not that his prick could get any harder at this particular moment.

He realised there was no point in delaying any longer.

Sherlock let his hands slide down towards John’s surprisingly bright red pants, then deftly hooked his thumbs in the waistband and tentatively pulled them down.

John was breathing shallowly, unmistakably nervous now, as he started pulling down Sherlock’s pants as well.

Obviously he’d never done anything like this with another man before either. Maybe he was worried that it wasn’t going to be as good as with a woman. Sherlock could only hope his preparations would prove to be enough in order for him not to disappoint John.

Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock let himself drop back onto the bed, so John could remove his underwear altogether from his legs. John then stepped out of his and crawled over Sherlock, one foot still on the floor. His cock was oddly hovering in mid-air somewhere above Sherlock’s crotch.

John briefly caught his lip between his teeth and looked down at Sherlock with an awed look. “Oh god, you are so goddamn beautiful, you know that?”

Something ardently tickled in Sherlock’s stomach.  
John’s eyes smiled and it was the prettiest thing Sherlock had ever seen.

“Come on, let’s scoot over to the middle of the bed,” John whispered. Which was a good idea, seeing as their legs were uncomfortably dangling off the edge.  
Once they had relocated to the centre, John bent down to softly kiss Sherlock’s chest, then moved up to his neck, by the end of which he finally ended up stretched out on top of Sherlock.

Feeling the weight of him had a strangely comforting effect, while at the same time, feeling John’s cock pressing against his thigh, so close to his own and without any fabric between them this time, made Sherlock’s heart pound in his chest.

While John continued nuzzling Sherlock’s neck, he slowly began to move his hips, subtly grinding them down onto Sherlock. He was not pushing, not asking anything, just languidly moving like the surf of the sea. It made Sherlock feel desired in a way he never had before. After a minute, he tentatively bucked back up against him, softly gasping at the sensation. This apparently encouraged John to grind down harder and the noises he was now making indicated he was slowly becoming desperate for more. His brows were furrowed and there was a tension in his muscles that betrayed the fact that he was struggling to remain in charge of his own body.

Sherlock had never seen John like this before, _needy_ and on the brink of losing control. It was a somewhat worrying but beautiful sight and it made Sherlock want to get to know more of this side of him that was now meant only for him.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“You can prepare me by inserting one finger, with an ample amount of lubricant, then two fingers.”

John stilled and swallowed.  
“Okay. Bedside table?”

Sherlock nodded.

When John opened the drawer, his face broke into a restrained smile. Dammit, he’d spotted the stupid dildo, of course, and could not miss the fact that it looked rather obviously new.

“So you’ve been practicing, huh?”  
He sounded as if he were merely playfully trying to avoid using the word ‘masturbating’.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond.  
“I... er... had been planning to.”  
He quickly put a pillow under his bottom, infinitely grateful for the internet and its inexhaustible source of information.

“Wait. So you’ve never actually done this before?” John asked.

Sherlock blinked. “No.”

“Or with another person? Ever?”

“No.” No need to tell him about that just yet.

Sherlock felt his stomach turn to solid rock. Was John disappointed in him for his lack of experience? But he could learn, surely? He wanted this, _needed_ this, in order to be freed from the groove he had been stuck in for over two decades. And he felt sure that with John, he could.  
He desperately wanted to _prove_ that he could.

The room started to fade a bit and the skin in his face was tingling unpleasantly. Sherlock tried to focus on breathing normally, but didn’t even seem to manage this simplest of tasks.

Something in John’s demeanour suddenly changed. He looked at Sherlock with a concerned frown etched into his face. “Look, we don’t have to do this now. If you’d rather wait...”

Sherlock felt a sudden rise of panic. “No, John. Why would we _wait_ any longer? We’ve waited long enough. Don’t you... want this?”

John let his head hang down for a second.  
“Sherlock, I want you, all of you. I really, _really_ want to... get inside you, believe me. God, I can’t image a single thing that’s hotter,” he said, his voice slightly shaky. Then he exhaled slowly, steadying his breath. “But at the same time, if you didn’t want to do it, that would be _fine. Please_ don’t feel pressured. _Please_. Look at me. We don’t have to do this.”

They stared at each other intently for a second, until Sherlock’s gaze drifted off, confused.

Finally, John continued, “I’m personally not particularly comfortable with the idea of anything up my arse either. I totally understand. It’s all fine. I just... I love you.”

Sherlock’s eyes shot back up to John, who looked as if he’d just swallowed a bee. The shock on his face indicated that he probably hadn’t exactly meant to say what he just did. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was, Sherlock realised.

Sherlock’s eyelids started to flutter uncontrollably. Another person had just told him he loved him. He couldn’t even remember his mother ever saying that to him.

He forgot to breathe for a few seconds as he let the words echo in his mind. John loved him. Sherlock wasn’t even sure what that meant, exactly. But once his brain stopped trying to wrap itself around this new piece of information, a relieved smile involuntarily started to spread over his face.

John was still looking a bit startled at what he’d just blurted out, apparently not knowing where to look, and flopped down next to him on the bed, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock rolled onto his right side to face John and pulled him close, hugging him tightly. He was amazed at the sensation of full-body, skin-to-skin contact and it sent a ripple of pure delight through him.

“So you don’t want to do it?” Sherlock asked, unsure.

“No, not now,” John replied quietly into his neck. “Maybe later sometime, and only if you really want to, but not now.” He pulled back to look at Sherlock. “I think we were going a bit too far with our wanting to make up for lost time.” He smiled faintly.

Sherlock nodded, frowning.

After a short silence, John added softly, sounding almost as if there was the beginning of a lump in his throat, “Sherlock, in a relationship you should never do anything you’re uncomfortable with, you know; that’s not how it works.”  
And after another pause, “Well, except maybe things like attending social occasions you’d rather not go to, in which case I will simply drag you there by your ears.”

They both chuckled.

The silence that followed was no longer awkward.  
John put a hand on Sherlock’s chest, slowly tracing invisible patterns with his fingers. It felt oddly calming.  
Sherlock mirrored him, and they just stroked one another for some time, occasionally planting lazy kisses on the other’s neck or shoulder.

Sherlock felt a strange combination of disappointment and relief. He was disappointed mainly with himself, for being so nervous about something so trite, but very relieved that John actually seemed totally fine with not doing it, at least for now.

And he’d said he loved him.

After the initial alarm of hearing those words had subsided, a relaxation set in that bordered on drowsiness, causing him to belatedly realise that John had gotten up into a half-sitting position and was spreading his kisses out all over Sherlock’s torso.  
Sherlock had never had this level of attention paid to him before, and it was a mesmerising experience. After having covered the area between Sherlock’s nipples and his navel, leaving a subtle trail of cool damp patches on his skin, John continued to move lower, making Sherlock catch his breath. A moment later, John was lying on his side the other way round, now leaning on his right elbow: with his knees near Sherlock’s right shoulder, his head hovering near Sherlock’s half-hard prick.

_Oh god._

Sherlock swallowed.

_Was John actually going to...?_

Yes, he was.

“Er... Condom?” John whispered.

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock managed. Thankfully, he’d had himself tested only a couple of months ago to eliminate any kind of contagion through needles that might have taken place when he’d been too doped to care during the foolish exercise he had undertaken last summer.

Sherlock let out an embarrassing noise when he felt a soft, warm tongue on his glans.  
John glanced at him with something of a mischievous smile, or perhaps even a triumphant one. Before Sherlock had time to think any more, John opened his mouth and took him in, making Sherlock’s brain short-circuit. He was vaguely aware of a variety of unfamiliar noises coming from his own throat and this time, when John looked at him, Sherlock was certain he saw an unabashedly victorious grin on the doctor’s flushed face.

Sherlock had had no idea that this was what it would feel like. John’s mouth was soft and warm, and with it he was doing things to him that he hadn’t known were possible; alternately licking, kissing and sucking different parts (and all of them) of his prick.

Very soon, his brain was on the verge of sensory overload. There was no room in his Mind Palace that could accommodate what he was experiencing. It was too wonderful. Too much. He needed something else to focus on, desperately needed to divert energy to another part of his brain and _do_ something. He urgently wanted to feel John, touch him, taste him, anything, everything. John’s groin was very near Sherlock’s head and Sherlock longed to do the same thing back at him, simultaneously, but John’s prick was just out of reach.

Of course, John was shorter than he.

With the very few brain cells that were still functioning, he realised that there was another erogenous zone that he could reach. He slung an arm around John’s bottom and pulled him close, ducking his head between John’s legs. This elicited a surprised grunt, followed by a strained gasp the minute Sherlock lightly bit John’s arse cheeks – after which he continued licking and kissing them, revelling in the feel of soft flesh that gave way so easily under the pressure of his mouth and of the little hairs that tickled his tongue.

With everything he did, he could feel a direct response on his own cock. When he planted soft kisses, John would tenderly run his tongue alongside his shaft. When Sherlock dragged his nose over the sensitive underside of John’s bum, he was rewarded with increased suction and some beautiful moans coming from deep within John’s throat.

Sherlock had read several accounts on rimming that had spiked his curiosity and he was now considering whether his inquisitiveness might outweigh his instinctive reluctance and hygiene concerns.  
In the 2.3 seconds he was pondering this question, John suddenly let out a surprised gasp. Sherlock hadn’t touched him, and it took him several milliseconds to realise it had been his breath. To double-check, he softly blew some air over John’s hole.

John gasped again, appreciatively.

This was interesting.

Sherlock decided to experiment a bit more, testing various variables, like flow speed and angle, turning John into more and more of an aroused mess as he went along.

Rimming could wait.  
Sex was turning out to be a much more varied and fascinating activity than he had anticipated, and nothing like the mindless routine he had always assumed it to be.

Meanwhile, his cock had become so hard under John’s mouth that it ached and Sherlock was starting to become rather desperate himself. An unfamiliar sensation, and he was not sure whether it was in fact unpleasant or not.

To make it worse, every time John gasped around Sherlock’s cock in response to Sherlock’s teasing breaths over his arse, the cooling effect of John’s breath on his wet prick almost made him come.

Then, in an apparent burst of decisiveness, John suddenly took him in deep and started sucking relentlessly hard, alternating with firm strokes. The world gradually began to fall out of focus as pleasure rose up from Sherlock’s groin and swirled through him in a swelling vortex. He let his head fall back hard onto the pillow and was only vaguely aware of his hips jerking and his semen dripping onto his stomach in little warm puddles.

Then there was only his own heavy breathing and nothing else.

His mind was beautifully empty, infinitely more so than after tossing himself off.

John.

John had done this to him, for him.

Sherlock dazedly looked up to see John timidly smiling back at him, still gently holding his prick, his hands dripping with cum.

Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes again.  
John was a miracle.

“John...”

“Yes?”

Sherlock briefly opened his eyes to see John had crawled back towards him and was now tentatively touching himself as he lay on his side next to Sherlock.

“That was...” Sherlock couldn’t quite find either the words or the energy to utter them, and just settled for a heavenly smile that came completely natural in the moment and that he was sure would convey the same meaning.

He could hear John tossing off faster now, and Sherlock slowly realised that the accompanying slick sound was John using Sherlock’s semen as lube, which ignited a surge of fresh arousal in him in spite of his spent state.  
He opened his eyes just in time to see John scrunch up his face and falter in his movements as he added more splashes to Sherlock’s torso and melted together existing ones.

Finished, John rested his forehead on the pillow next to Sherlock, his chest heaving.

Sherlock put a hand on his back and nudged him closer.

Eventually, they lay chest to chest, almost as if gluing themselves together with cum, Sherlock thought amusedly. The disappointment he had felt half an hour ago was gone completely and replaced by utter happiness (of a magnitude and intensity he hadn’t imagined possible a week ago).

His thoughts strayed back to that cosy evening only three nights previously, and his alcohol-induced remark that might have inadvertently – but thankfully – set things into motion.

John was apparently having similar thoughts, as he suddenly said, “So what was it that prevented us from telling each other how we felt?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, contemplating. “Well, in my case I suppose it was fear of rejection,” he said softly, looking at John from the corner of his eye. “Despite all my deduction skills, I could never figure out how you felt about me. Ever since we met, I’ve considered that my greatest flaw.” He paused. “Perhaps I was blinded by fear. Fear of being rejected and then losing you.”

John hugged him a bit tighter, letting out a long breath. “Then we have more in common than we thought.”

* * * * *

Sherlock woke up because he was uncomfortably warm.

Before he opened his eyes, however, he remembered. The pillow he was resting on, was a living and breathing _John_. Or rather, John’s shoulder.  
After pushing away the duvet, he slung an arm around John’s chest and smiled blissfully.

After the revelation of sex turning out to be something that he could most definitely get used to, he now found that having John in his bed with him, fast asleep and looking so peaceful, was a whole new category of wonderful.

He watched John’s chest rise and fall for a while, then contentedly dozed off again.

When he woke up a second time, the bed was cold and empty. He sat up with a start, only to hear typical John Watson breakfast preparation noises coming from the kitchen.  
He fell back against the mattress and revelled in the prospect of an entire Saturday with John, and no plans other than a fancy dinner date tonight.

When the noises started to die down, he got out of bed and sauntered into the kitchen.

John was just sliding a fried egg onto his plate. When he saw Sherlock, he beamed at him, spatula in hand. “Good morning, handsome,” he said, apparently trying to sound casual. “Would you like some toast, or coffee? Or fried eggs, if you happen to have started liking those in my absence?” And with a cheeky grin, “Or if you reserve those for after-sex only?”

He must have been able to tell that Sherlock was only staring at him, obviously more than a little love-struck, and not really listening, for he added, “Or would you perhaps like a kiss for starters?”

Sherlock stepped closer and said, slightly dreamily, “Yes, in fact, I would very much like a kiss for starters.” Bending down, he gave John a short peck on the lips. “... and for main course...” – another peck – , “... _and_ for dessert.”

Then he helped himself.

His gravelly, only-just-awake voice had sounded even more seductive than he had intended it to, and he didn’t know if it was that or just John’s general state of infatuation, but either way, the toast and eggs were cold before the men returned their attention to breakfast.

* * * * *

Both of them came three times that day.

Sherlock gave his first blowjob – which only lasted two minutes, because John practically came the instant Sherlock touched him with his tongue, and climaxed for real as soon as he used all of his mouth and applied the lightest of suction.

Sherlock had loved the way John had become undone below him, moaning and whimpering as if he were in danger of dying of pleasure. It felt as if he suddenly had magical powers, being able to make John squirm under his touch like that.

Surrendering himself to John had felt strange and awkward at first (especially without doing anything back), but the way John had looked at him and had kept covering him with tender kisses – as if he’d never seen anything more precious in the world – had made him feel safe in a way he’d never experienced before.  
John had actually managed to make Sherlock come just with words once: whispering both sweet and filthy things into his ear while kissing his neck – and subtly pressing his bulge to Sherlock’s naked cock as he was straddling him, but otherwise not touching him.

The second time Sherlock sucked John off, he had lasted a bit longer and Sherlock had been able to at least practice this new skill a little.

Towards the end of the afternoon, when they were lazily lying on the sofa, limbs intertwined, John furtively crawled down and hooked his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama trousers again. Sherlock became hard within seconds, catching his breath when he felt John’s fingers on his bare hips, pulling down his pants. Without further ado, John took Sherlock’s cock into his mouth and, using his already expanding array of creative tongue techniques, soon made him come, grunting and screaming as dazzling fireworks went off in his head once more.

The silence in his head afterwards was quite possibly nearly as marvellous as all the rest of this was.

He felt, simply, happy. (And that word did not even make him want to vomit anymore.)

John was now half lying on top of him, one of his legs between Sherlock’s, and looking down fondly at him as the dwindling afternoon light conjured yellowish-grey shadows through the flat.

“What time is it?” Sherlock mumbled, still drowsy from his orgasm.

“Around six, I should think,” John answered.

“Hmm. We should get dressed.”

“Dressed,” John repeated flatly. “Because... you would like to properly rip off my clothes next time rather than just my T-shirt and pants?” He mock-frowned.

Sherlock couldn’t help a smile. “Well, that too, although that might be slightly inappropriate tonight. We’re going out.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“The case,” Sherlock elucidated. “I predict there will be some discord between Violet and Bob tonight a little after eight at The Ledbury. We need to be there in order to ensure a happy ending.” He got into a half-sitting position and nuzzled John’s neck, adding, with some innuendo, “I think we might just have time for a shower.”

“Hmm. If you’re asking me on a date to a fancy restaurant, as I understand is the case, you should ask me properly, though.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, schooling his face into a solemn look. “John, will you go out on a date with me?”

John pretended to think about that for a second, and answered, just before he burst out into giggles, “Let me just wash your cum out of my hair, and then yes, I would love to.”

* * * * *

The Ledbury indeed was the perfect setting for Sherlock’s set-up. It was modern, with stylish chandeliers and long curtains not quite covering ceiling-high mirrors – and, most importantly, obviously expensive.

The waiter led them to a table behind a divider with plants on it and re-appeared shortly thereafter with the wine list.

“So, how exactly do you know Violet and Bob will be here tonight?” John asked.

“Oh, I invited them. On behalf of each other. Neither of them can afford such a posh place, of course. Not yet, anyway.”

Just then, Sherlock spotted the two of them coming in. The waiter seated them at a table near the window, directly in Sherlock's line of view, as had been pre-arranged.

“Sherlock, what is your plan, exactly?” John sounded slightly worried. “Are you sure they are going to be... happy, with whatever you’ve got in store for them?”

“Oh yes, quite sure. In fact, I’m rather hoping they will come out of the weekend as contented as we are, as a result.”

John gave him an open-mouthed smirk and huffed, then shook his head. “You meddlesome busybody of a genius.”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the couple to look at John. Did he disapprove? Or was he just joking? No, he was decidedly beaming and Sherlock bit his lips to hide a smile.  
He’d always loved it when John thought he was brilliant, but now that Sherlock knew how deep those feelings truly ran, it elicited a more profound response in him as well.

At that instant, however, his attention was drawn back to the table near the window. He couldn’t exactly hear the words, but Violet and Bob’s body language clearly indicated that the moment Sherlock had anticipated had arrived. They were bickering about who had invited whom.

With a quick grin in John’s direction, Sherlock slowly got up and casually walked over to their table.  
He heard Violet say, “But who invited me then, if you insist that you didn’t?”

“I did.”

“Mister Holmes!”

In a flash of a moment, Sherlock was reminded of another shocked couple in a similarly fancy restaurant, and he quickly pushed the memory away. John had forgiven him and all had turned out well. _Very_ well. His now-lover was sitting not twenty yards away from him and Sherlock could feel his soothing presence.

He took a short breath.

“I sent e-mails to both of you from the other’s account and intercepted the replies,” he explained with a friendly smile. “I figured you, Miss Smith, would be convinced that Bob does like you, which he really does, by the way, if he invited you to such a posh place. And I have my reasons to assume that thanks among other things to this dinner date, Bob’s friend Jack by now has made plans to move back to South Africa. Am I right?”

“Er, yes, as a matter of fact, he asked for a transfer back yesterday afternoon.” Bob was now eying Sherlock suspiciously. “Did you _threaten_ him?”

“I did no such thing, don’t worry,” Sherlock replied smoothly. Then, turning his attention back to Violet, “The main thing is that _you_ will no longer be followed around on the streets, which is why you came to me in the first place.” From the periphery of his vision, he noticed Bob’s eyes grow to twice their size.

“So it was Jack, after all?” Violet said.

Sherlock smiled at Bob without replying. Then, as he started to turn away, he said, “I will leave you two to enjoy the rest of your evening now. Order what you like, by the way; it’s on the house. Good-bye.”

He strolled back over to where John sat, leaving behind an astonished couple.

“You,” John said, hiding a wide grin by looking down as he shook his head. “I think this might warrant champagne, don’t you?”

Sherlock tried not to smile like a fool at this, then abandoned the attempt and raised his hand to summon the waiter.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter (safe version): <http://archiveofourown.org/works/3069035>
> 
> Regular version: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/2706491/chapters/6659789>


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